


your eyes are the sky (wide and wild and blue)

by geralehane



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Clarke is precious and broken, Clexa, Drug Abuse, F/F, Lexa is precious and broken, also a little fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6154857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geralehane/pseuds/geralehane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Lexa is a drug addict and Clarke is a drug dealer. It ends better than one might think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are probably OOC and this story deals with a lot of drug abuse. You've been warned. Please let me know what you think in the comments. Should I continue, or should I stick to cracky plotless one-shots for Clexa?

Clarke hates rain, and she finds it fascinating – how one is able to despise something they loved not so long ago. Because she used to love the way water fell from the sky, darkening her blonde tresses; she reveled in the smell of autumn that always came with raindrops and wind. Few months ago, rain was nothing more than a fun weather condition; something she gazed at from within the confines of her cozy apartment, something she had giggling kisses under at four in the morning, fully knowing she won’t remember the face she was kissing, her senses enhanced by pills and powder. Rain was cute and romantic and poetic, and the artist in her appreciated the saturation it brought to the city.

But now, her paintbrushes are dry and her clothes are wet, and she’s lost and annoyed and she finds that she really, really hates rain.

Clarke curses under her breath and pulls her thin leather jacket tighter to her body in an attempt to warm up. It doesn’t work. The wind is harsh and freezing, causing raindrops to sting her face like bullets, and she’s grateful to have a knapsack protecting her back, at least; but when she remembers what’s in it, her gratitude fades, leaving a bitter burn in her stomach. The reminder of her past mistakes weighs down on her shoulders, quite literally.

Clarke Griffin hates rain, likes dogs, regularly forgets to water her plants, and carries around various drugs in her backpack.

A particularly strong blow of wind comes at her, and she shivers, struggling to stay on her feet. She’s been walking in circles for the last half an hour, having gotten off at the wrong station. She might have had a chance to still make it to her destination, but she foolishly relied on her inner sense of direction.

She has a package to deliver, she is late, and she is lost.

Her clear blue eyes wander the streets, taking in buildings looming over her head. It’s just her luck she ended up in the bad part of town – but then again, drug dealers rarely visited gated communities. Although, her original destination isn’t really in a bad neighborhood: today it’s just a college party somewhere on the outskirts of the city. The ‘somewhere’ part is the problem she’s facing. If only she weren’t so busy pitying herself, it probably would’ve been already done and over with; some dumb college kids would be already riding their high, and she would be at home, escaping the reality of her mother and her debt and her lonely, dry paintbrushes. Lately, she longs for those moments more and more, and she doesn’t want to think about the implications. She doesn’t want to admit that the reality always comes back. The reality had a nasty habit of crashing down on her.

Today, the reality is rain and cold and darkness and a stranger following her for a couple of blocks now.

Clarke noticed the hooded figure behind her around ten minutes ago, and to her it seems like it’s been forever. She knows that screaming won’t help, and she doubts she’ll be able to outrun them – her sneakers are slippery and her bag is heavy. Clarke racks her brain, trying to calculate her stalker’s motive. They are in an open street, even if it is empty and dark, so chances of rape are relatively low. Rapists are always after the easy prey, and Clarke is anything but.  Although, you never know, but Clarke is willing to bet she’s about to be robbed, and possibly killed – it’s always a possibility in this city. Well, she could make it out of there relatively unharmed if she trades the drugs she’s supposed to sell for her life. She was already mugged once, during her very first delivery, and that’s what landed her in this mess – what’s one more? Besides, third time’s a charm – so she has two robberies more to go and maybe after that things will finally go her way, for once.

Or, she’s doomed to die in a nameless alley.

She senses more than hears a presence behind her – the stranger has finally caught up. Clarke thinks she might still make a run for it, just so she could at least say she tried, when a gentle female voice asks: “Hey, are you lost?”

Clarke stops, and turns, and there are serious eyes, big and green, studying her cautiously. Their owner stands three feet away from her, and her form is slim and long.

“Am I that obvious?” She asks, and she can detect a hint of smile on plump lips through rain. The girl takes a careful step towards her.

“You’ve walked past this alley at least three times,” she points somewhere, but Clarke doesn’t look. “Either you’re waiting for a client or you’re lost.”

The blonde blinks, startled, before tensing up. It could be a trap, she realizes. An undercover cop fishing on the streets. Clarke gives the girl a subtle once-over and quickly dismisses the idea when she’s done, though. The girl isn’t a cop. The girl is most probably using, too. There is nothing out of ordinary in the way she looks; she’s wearing an old leather jacket over a hoodie, and her dark skinny jeans are tucked into worn biker boots, but it’s her sunken eyes and twitching fingers that give her away. Clarke’s seen her fair share of addicts, no matter how much she wishes she hadn’t. Besides, even if the girl turns out to be an incredibly stealthy narc, she hasn’t caught her red-handed, so, as long as she keeps her mouth shut, she’s golden, and drugs inside her backpack could easily be her monthly supply.

Cops don’t care about junkies. They only hurt themselves.

“I’m not a hooker,” she settles for an answer.

“Clearly.” Before Clarke has time to ask what the hell she meant by that, the girl continues. “Look, I don’t really care what’s in your bag, but I’m sure you’ve got enough to be interesting, and you really don’t wanna be interesting around here.” Her voice is a sharp contrast against the look in her eyes, soft, quiet.

“I got off at the wrong station.”

The girl shrugs, making her hood slightly slip backwards, a lone dark curl falling out and framing the side of her face.

“Don’t care about that, either. You need to leave. People have been eyeing you for some time now.” It startles Clarke – she hasn’t noticed anyone. To her, she was completely alone in the rain. “Where were you going?”

Clarke tells her the address. She doesn’t understand why she does that. This girl is a complete stranger, a little unstable, a little cold, and she has been following Clarke for god knows how long – because apparently, Clarke’s observation skills are subpar.

The girl nods.

"You just need to get back to the subway."

Clarke feels annoyance prickle under her skin, fueled by her exhaustion.

"If I knew where's the subway, I would've been out of here like an hour ago."

Green eyes, big and haunted, twinkle with amusement, and suddenly the girl looks much younger than Clarke has originally thought. She wrangles her fingers some more before speaking up.

"I could give you directions, but it's getting darker and i wouldn't wanna go alone if I were you."

"Thought you didn't care."

The girl shrugs.

"I don't. But at the same time, now that I've spoken to you, I kinda know you, and if I let you leave, I'll be wondering whether your dead body had been dumped in a river on in a ditch, and I don't need that kind of negativity in my life."

Clarke gapes at her. Then, she chuckles. A moment later, both of them are laughing, and Clarke pretends that water on her face is from rain, and that it isn't salty at all.

She's a wreck.

"So," she states after they calm down. "My only options are staying here or letting you walk me to the subway? How do I know you're not tricking me so you can murder me?"

"You don't."

'Fair enough,' Clarke thinks, and motions for the girl to lead the way. It may very well end up in homicide, but right now, she doesn't care. She's wet and tired and she might be getting a cold already.

They walk in silence, and she steals glances at her accidental companion. She's taller than Clarke; her posture is confident, but at the same time defeated - it took Clarke a moment to find the right word. Her torso is hidden under layers of clothing, but her legs are long and slim. Clarke imagines she was muscular and fit at some point in her life before she took up drugs - and there is no doubt the girl beside her is an addict. Clarke can't find it in herself to think of a disgraceful name 'junkie', because her face may be rough, but it's still beautiful, and her eyes are haunted and sunken, and Clarke knows all too well what it feels like.

"This way," the girl mumbles and takes a turn to the left, and her hand scratches at her arm. Clarke knows it's subconscious. She also knows this girl won't buy what she's selling. Her poison is stronger and deadlier and it makes Clarke's heart ache in her chest.

Another turn, this time to the right, and they reach the subway. Clarke wants to laugh and scream and slap her forehead, because it took them about ten minutes to get back to where she's started. Her savior purses her lips at the frustrated face Clarke is making, and the blonde likes to think that it's her holding back an amused smile, not her judging the blonde for being a ditz.

Clarke isn't a ditz, at least, not when she's sober.

"Thanks," she says sincerely, looking straight into the stranger's eyes. Her companion shrugs her shoulders, once, telling her it's no big deal.

"You better get going. That bag ain't gonna sell itself."

Clarke narrows her eyes.

"Am I that obvious?" She repeats her earlier question, but this time, there is no mirth in her voice.

"You're one of Finn's. I've seen you around."

Clarke recoils, hating the way cold dread fills her up. If this girl knows Finn... If she tells him she got lost and accepted help from a stranger when she had a bag full of drugs, she's doomed.

"Don't worry. I don't know him personally. I've seen you around, that's all." The girl speaks calmly. Clarke releases a shaky breath. "You really need to leave now. It's dark."

"Yeah." Clarke doesn't have it in her to argue and stay and try to get more out of the girl. If Finn finds out, she'll deal with him. She experiences apathy as sudden as her spike of fear, and it's exhaustion that settles in her bones , replacing dread. "I really should. Thank you, so much. You saved me tonight, I think."

'Even though people like me bring you death, little by little,' she thinks to herself.

"Like I said."

"Right. You don't care." Clarke can't help a small smile, and the girl can't help smiling in return, even if it's tiny and barely counts as a smile anyway. And Clarke thinks she doesn't want to refer to her as 'the girl' anymore, and in some other life, she would have liked to see her again.

Clarke thinks that if she didn't do what she did in that moment, the girl would have been something she was supposed to be: a fleeting acquaintance, nothing more than a string guiding her from one place to another, fading from her life after fulfilling her purpose. But Clarke is nothing if not stubborn, and she feels like defying fate lately.

"I'm Clarke," she says, and she waits with baited breath for the girl's usual "I don't care". It never comes.

The stranger blinks, and stares at her, and with three simple words, she becomes _someone_.

"I'm Lexa."


	2. Chapter 2

Next time she sees Lexa, she kind of wishes she hasn’t, and her chest burns worse.  
  
That day, she’s lying on her back, eyes closed, while Finn curses as he empties himself on her stomach after hurriedly pulling out and tugging the condom off. His head is buried in her neck, and his rugged breath tickles, so she lets out a small laugh. Her chuckles sound weird to her ears, and she laughs harder.  
  
“Are you still high?” Finn asks as he rolls off of her. He stands up, grabs a pack of wet tissues and throws them to her. She doesn’t make an effort to at least pretend she went for them, and the pack lands next to her stomach, still covered in Finn’s essence and still quivering with laughter.  
  
“I’m high on you,” she tells him a blatant lie, and it seems so funny to her. She feels wired, and she lets that familiar feeling take over her body, washing away Finn’s thrusts and grunts.  
  
Finn rolls his eyes.  
  
“You’re high cause you can’t stand me when you’re sober,” he tells her. He’s a pretty smart guy sometimes. Mostly at times that are very inconvenient.  
  
“Maybe,” she shrugs. Wet tissues are still there, the pack tickling her side. She reaches down blindly, sweeping them up and lazily wiping her stomach. Finn’s gaze becomes hungry as it burns through her, but her high is wearing off, and suddenly, she wants to be anywhere but here. Even the dark, damp streets of this damned city sound more warm and inviting.  
  
She has to get out of here before she sobers up and breaks in front of Finn.  
  
“Thanks,” she motions to the tissues and stands. She doesn’t let the all-familiar and all-consuming feeling of disappointed regret in, instead focusing on gathering her clothes. Underwear, check. Jeans, check. She still has her bra on, so that’s something. A shoe. Where is her other shoe?  
  
Finn doesn’t bother with dressing up as he picks up her shoe and hands it to her, smirking. Clarke only arches an eyebrow at that. She can’t possibly know what is going on in Finn’s head, but she’s almost sure that whatever it is he’s thinking, it’s not as close to the truth as he wishes it to be. He’s not that impressive.  
  
She dresses in silence.  
  
“Got you a client, Princess," he speaks up suddenly, just as she’s about to leave. His tone is pleased, and she hates it; she also hates that she knows why he’s doing it, why he’s waited till she was almost out the door to say it. He wants her to remember who she is. What she is. What she owes him and what she has to do to pay him back. To his credit, she’s always the one to initiate sex. Finn wouldn’t take sex as payment anyway; they both know she’s not the only one he has. Clarke finds that amusing. After all, he’s not that impressive. She doesn’t really know why she keeps falling back into his bed.  
  
Maybe, she’s looking for more reasons to hate herself.  
  
Her fingers grip the door handle, and when she glances down on them, she finds them bloodless, white.  
  
“I’m listening.” She doesn’t have to turn around to know that Finn is smirking his obnoxious smirk. There is shuffling of sheets and feet behind her as he stands. She imagines his dark hair falling down his face, and him impatiently brushing it back.   
  
“46th, between sixth and fifth.” She turns just in time to catch a package. “She’ll meet you there.”  
  
“She?”  
  
Finn shrugs.  
  
“That’s all I know. Don’t worry, code’s still the same.” Right. _Arkadia_. It’s been a while since cops have cracked the latest delivery code. "Good luck. Word is she's a bit fucked up."  
  
He might scaring her, he might not be. Clarke met weirdos, more than a few, actually.  
  
She shrugs.  
  
"Same."  
  
She doesn't look at him as she walks out the door.  
  
//  
  
She's back on the same street, and she's staring back into the same eyes, serious and forest green. There is a hint of surprise in them, this time.  
  
"Clarke." She lets the gentle clicking of the girl's tongue at the end of her name wash over her.  
  
"Lexa."  
  
"So." A surprised Lexa is fascinating. "You're my dealer."  
  
"Uh-huh."   
  
They grow silent.   
  
Clarke wishes she were anywhere, literally anywhere but here. She also wishes she never left, at the same time.   
  
“So, um, Ar- Arkadia?” The little squeak and tilt in Lexa’s voice would have been endearing in any other situation. Clarke sighs.  
  
“Yeah, that’s the code, it’s dumb anyway.” Honestly, it really is, and Clarke can’t help but think that the only reason cops haven’t busted her yet is because she’s selling to people cops don’t really care about. Junkies scoring some pills and kids getting some weed isn’t serious enough for police to investigate, probably. But what has Clarke surprised, however, is the fact that Lexa buys her kiddie stuff.  
  
Maybe she’s misjudged her.  
  
The blonde shivers. Weather these past few weeks has not been kind to the city. They are well into October, and autumn is becoming more noticeable. It’s been raining on and off, the wind never really stops, and few trees this city has are already bald and dead, ready to be buried under snow.   
  
“So, shall we?” Lexa finally gathers herself, gesturing vaguely somewhere behind her before turning and marching away. Clarke barely manages to catch up; the sidewalk is slippery and wet, and Lexa walks really fast. She hurries up, falling into step next to Lexa, stealing glances when the girl isn't looking. And the girl isn't. At all. Lexa stares ahead, taking long strides, seemingly wanting to get to wherever it is they are going as soon as possible. Maybe, Lexa just wants to get away from her. Clarke doesn't blame her if that's the case, not really. She, too, would probably want to run away from someone who reminds her of who she's become. In a way, she already did.  
  
(She thinks of empty canvas and dry paintbrushes and ignored calls and restless nights.)

They reach a dingy entrance to a dingy apartment building, and Clarke thinks they will enter, but Lexa passes by instead and slips into an alley behind it. She has no choice but to follow. They pass two dumpsters before Lexa turns, and Clarke suppresses the urge to shiver under her scrutinizing gaze.

"You got it?" Lexa asks with a gruff voice that sounds nothing like her. Clarke isn't sure whether Lexa is playing a tough guy or trying to dissociate. The girl's fingers twitch. She thinks it's the latter.

Clarke nods.

"Here," she says unnecessarily, quickly reaching into her jacket and taking out the small brown package Finn gave her this morning. It's not very heavy. She wonders, for an umpteenth time, whether Lexa is buying for herself, whether she's having a party, whether she'll be reselling at a higher price to someone else.

She watches Lexa's jaw muscles lock and watches her hands form fists and thinks that as much as Lexa wishes it weren't, it's definitely the first one. Clarke glances at the package in her hands. She didn't look inside, assuming it was either crushed pills or weed; Finn never gave her other deals. What she holds in her hand would have lasted her three weeks. She takes another look at Lexa, at the greedy gaze in her sunken eyes, at her tense shoulders, at her trembling fists, and thinks that it will last Lexa a week. Maybe less.

She doesn't want to think about it, so she stops and simply hands Lexa the stuff. Usually, she takes money first, but she doubts Lexa will fuck her over. She doesn't seem like the type.

Then again, Clarke imagines that a certain amount of time ago, Lexa's eyes were bright emerald instead of dull green and her shoulders weren't tense and her jaw wasn't locked and she didn't seem like the type to shoot up, either. She wouldn't have liked Clarke if they met then, probably. Maybe, Clarke wouldn't have liked her, too. Maybe.

She doesn't know if she likes _herself_ now, but she knows this her likes this Lexa just fine.

Lexa grunts as she accepts the package, unclenching her right fist to do so. Clarke blinks, not prepared for the acidic burn of _something_ in her chest as she looks at Lexa's slender, trembling hand. Her long fingers wrap around the brown paper, too quickly, too tightly to be casual, and Clarke doesn't know why she wants to cry.

She sighs with relief when it disappears in her pocket. That way, she can pretend she didn't see Lexa clutch to it.

"Here," Lexa echoes her unnecessary statement from earlier, reaching into her jeans and thrusting several crumpled bills into Clarke's hand. She tries to pretend they don't burn where they make contact with her skin, and Lexa seems to breath with relief, too, when Clarke tucks the money away. "What, you're not going to count?"

"I trust you," Clarke says the most ridiculous thing then, with a serious look on her face. This alley probably hasn't ever heard those words together in one sentence. Judging by Lexa's astonished look, she hasn't, either. Not for a long time.

"Right." Lexa says the next part quietly, but her words knock the ground from under Clarke's feet. "I did, too. I didn't know you sold this kinda stuff. You didn't seem like..." She sighs. "You didn't seem."

Lexa's _I did, too_ echoes in her ears, and she doesn't know which is worse: Lexa saying it about herself or Lexa saying it about Clarke. Her words afterwords heavily hint it was about her; since Clarke is the queen of royally fucking everything up, she goes on defense. It's an automatic response, a knee jerk that she always does. She wonders if she'll ever stop.

"This kinda stuff?" She repeats incredulously. "You knew I was a dealer. I know you did. You're telling me you didn't figure I was carrying weed and pills in my bag the night we met?"

Lexa's gaze is falsely calm.

"I don't mean just drugs." She reaches into her pocket, making the blonde wince: she doesn't want to see that package again. "I mean _heroin_." Lexa's eyebrows rise practically to her hairline, then. "Don't tell me you didn't know you were selling heroin to me?"

Clarke's blood is suddenly pulsing in her ears and she thinks she just might be sick.

Fucking _Finn_.

"I didn't." The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them; they leave a dirty, unpleasant taste behind. She probably shouldn't have admitted to her client that she didn't even know what she was selling, but Clarke is too shocked to worry about proper work ethic. "I..."

Lexa doesn't look at her like she's an idiot. She doesn't look at her like she's something disgusting and dirty. Lexa doesn't look at her the way Clarke feels about herself. She simply nods.

"I suggest you take it up with Finn, then," she quietly says, and a trace of sympathy in her voice makes Clarke's stomach lurch.

"I guess I should."

"Yeah." The silence doesn't last long; it doesn't really feels long either, not like it's described in books Clarke used to read with her dad. A minute doesn't seem like an hour, it seems like a minute. Lexa shifts on her feet during that brief pause, and then shrugs, apologetically. "I have to go, Clarke. You know where the subway is, right?"

Clarke can't look at her when she answers, but she makes herself look anyway. It's the least she can do after selling Lexa her postponed death.

"Yeah. Thanks, though."

Lexa smirks, then. Clarke doesn't allow herself to revel in what she's sure is a rare sight. She doesn't try not to feel guilty at the fact that she's the one who got to see it, either; even though she's not the one that deserves it.

"I didn't offer anything." The smirk grows wider, and the guilt in Clarke's stomach splashes, waves reaching her throat. "Goodbye, Clarke. Be safe."

"You, too," comes out naturally, and it's fucked up. It's so fucked up.

Because now, the thing Lexa should be safe from is Clarke.

Clarke watches as Lexa walks away and becomes smaller and smaller with each step.


	3. Chapter 3

She doesn't see Lexa for two weeks after that, and it's for the first time in months that she actually feels the days pass. Two weeks are made of fourteen days and each day is made of twenty four hours and each hour is made of sixty minutes. Clarke hopes against all hopes that it's not because of Lexa, but she already knows it is.

Being aware of the reality sucks.

It's two weeks since she's last seen Lexa that she snaps and doesn't want to feel time anymore. So she goes to Finn. He eyes her warily as he opens the door; last time they've seen each other, Clarke was yelling and throwing things and punching doors.

“You set me up, Finn,” she'd said to him. “You made me sell heroin.”

“We never had an agreement,” he'd replied. “Think of it this way; it's worth way more than your usual stuff. You'll pay me off sooner if you deal the big h.”

She'd given it a thought, of course, as she'd studied Finn's tense face. It's something that seems so unattainable, to be finally free of this, of Finn and her debt. She'd given it a fleeting, small thought that disgusted her, because with that thought, came Lexa's dull eyes and pale face and fingers scratching at inner side of her elbow. She could never do this. Not after she'd met Lexa.

So she'd flipped Finn off and, with a final kick to the door, she was gone. And now, she's back, just like they both knew she would be.

“Princess,” Finn drawls, opening the door a little wider. Clarke ignores the flinch that wants to get out from inside of her chest at the nickname. “To what do I owe the pleasu-”

“You know why I'm here,” she snaps, not in the mood for his games. The hallway light keeps flickering above her head, casting bizarre shadows, and she can't wait to find it funny instead of annoying. So she grits her teeth and speaks again. “Pills today. I'm paying in cash.”

His smirk makes her shudder.

“You're sure? Because we could always work something out.” He opens the door completely, stepping aside and motioning for Clarke to come in, slightly bowing as he does so. “We do have an arrangement, Princess. I know money must be tight right now.”

Well, that's just mocking.

She thinks of forest green and dark unruly wet locks and stands just a little taller. Surprise flickering in Finn's eyes makes her chest feel just a little fuller. It's still empty; but it's not as hollow.

“I'm paying in cash,” she simply repeats, and makes no move to enter his apartment. Finn shrugs. He doesn't really care either way, Clarke knows that.

“Suit yourself. Wait here.”

She leaves right after the exchange, ignoring Finn's mocking  _don't I get a hug?_  as a small plastic bag burns a hole through her pocket.

//

It must be one of her many punishments, she thinks; running into Lexa either at unfortunate time or with unfortunate purpose.

Of course, in hindsight, she should've known Lexa probably would be at this party, too. She fits the customer profile, after all: young and lost and hopeless. Clarke wonders if she would've still gone to the party knowing Lexa would be there. If she would've still worn this dress, a piece of black cloth wrapped around her body, really. If she would've still taken the pills. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. No amount of wondering will change the fact that she's fucked up at a party while wearing practically nothing and Lexa is staring at her.

She looks pretty. She always looks pretty. If Clarke were sober, she wouldn't use the word always, she knows that. She would think of a pale cheek pressed against bathroom tiles and of a half-conscious body curled on the floor and of track marks on the inside of an elbow. But she's not sober. She's wide-eyed and wide-grinned, and Lexa is always, forever pretty, in her dark skinny jeans and a worn t-shirt and a leather jacket.

She tries to read Lexa's face, but instead trips and laughs. Lexa barely manages to catch her so she doesn't fall; but since Clarke is practically a deadweight, the girl doesn't really break her fall. She simply postpones it.

They slide to the ground, Lexa's arms around Clarke and a low bass resonating deep in their chests. Lexa's chest is probably as hollow as Clarke's. The music must echo there; rolling around until it escapes through Lexa's words.

God, she's so fucked up.

“Clarke.” Her name is so pretty falling from Lexa's lips. It's impossible to look intimidating with lips like this, Clarke thinks; full, beautiful lips that make Lexa look like she's constantly pouting. Must be hard for Lexa, too; Clarke has a feeling that the girl wants to be intimidating. She's not.

Clarke laughs again. She feels incredible; feels like she doesn't ever need to go to sleep again. Her arms and legs are light, so light, and she thinks she'd be floating if it wasn't for Lexa's arms around her.

Lexa's arms are around her.

“Clarke,” the voice says again. She remembers that voice. She remembers being surprised with how gentle and melodic it is. She still expects a low, husky drawl; maybe, Lexa also still expects a high annoying pitch from her. It's funny how they don't quite fit themselves, much like they don't quite fit this life, but they also won't quite fit the life they both left behind. “Clarke.” Lexa  _giggles_.

Clarke lifts her head, and sees herself mirrored in Lexa's pupils, big and wide and black. Her pupils are wide, so wide they take up most of the iris, and Clarke feels like she can breath. Because Lexa's pupils aren't a scary pinpoint dot in a pool of green. Because heroin that was sold to her by Clarke isn't running through her veins right now.

Clarke sees herself mirrored in Lexa's pupils, big and wide and black, and she dives right in.

//

It's like they are dancing.

Lexa's hands are on her waist and Clarke's legs are wrapped around her and their heartbeats resonate in each other's chest. Lexa's heart is pulsing in time with Clarke's, each beat loud and fast. Lexa's moans echo through Clarke's mouth, hitting the roof, tumbling down her throat, settling somewhere deep in her stomach, aching and heavy with need. They are merging, morphing, shifting.

It's like they are flying.

Clarke's artificial happiness mixes with a warm something in her chest, and she feels like she's gonna burst. In her hands, Lexa is steady and strong, and she can pretend.

Lexa's lips are much softer than she's imagined; they are chapped, but gentle against her own. She kisses her like she's something more than nothing, and it's exhilarating. Her hands are greedy; Clarke doesn't flinch when they tremble, because she's trembling all over, too, and it's not because of drugs in her system. Well. Maybe a little. She doesn't want to think about it, so she doesn't.

Instead, she focuses on Lexa's lips and neck and arms and just her.

They stumble into the room, tripping once, twice. Second time, they just decide to stay on the floor, laughing into each other's mouths. Clarke briefly wonders where did the music go, and then remembers that they left the party together. It got busted by cops anyway; she remembers Lexa's arm tugging her to the fire escape, remembers Lexa's muffled giggles as they ran through the streets. She took off her shoes at some point, because her heels were killing her; at some point, Lexa carried her, bridal style, Clarke's feet bare and her laughter loud. She remembers the door slam behind them and she remembers Lexa's insistent hands all over her body.

She feels so scared, deep down, because it's entirely possible she won't remember any of it tomorrow, and she doesn't want to forget. She doesn't want to forget Lexa.

They are laughing and running and kissing and flying and Clarke's mind is full of racing thoughts and images and memories. She doesn't want it to stop. There is a universe bristling inside of her, inside both of them, with stars and nebulas and black holes.

Lexa is beautiful bathed in moonlight streaming from the window. She is beautiful pinned under Clarke's weightless, floating body. Her breath is ragged and broken, just like her laugh.

“Clarke,” she whispers, and Clarke is flying.

Clothes disappear so quickly that she's not sure if they wore any to begin with; it also may be the fact that Clarke's mind simply skipped unnecessary steps and focused on the good stuff. She feels even lighter now, bare before Lexa; and Lexa is flawless under her gaze.

She's pale and slim and writhing under Clarke and it's everything. This room, this moon, this floor, this girl – it's everything and Clarke has never felt so full.

She presses herself against Lexa fully, barely supporting herself on her arms. Their bodies are slick against each other, and Clarke likes the sensation; likes to realize that this is something they made together, that she's feeling physical evidence of them. She's impatient to feel much more than that, and Lexa mewls when her fingers dip into her wet heat, drawing moans from the girl. Clarke wonders if these moans will turn into screams. She thinks she wants them to. She wants Lexa to shout into her as she comes.

She cups Lexa, softly at first, exploring her. Wetness coats her fingers, and she marvels at that, feeling herself clench in response. Lexa is soft everywhere, it seems.

“Clarke.” She will probably never get tired of the way her name falls from these lips. Lips she should be kissing right now, which she does, immediately, feeling them grin. A hand trails down her back, cupping her ass, making her let out a surprised yelp. Lexa laughs again, and it's an incredible sound. She never wants it to stop. She wants to record it, to put it on repeat and blast it so this whole damn city will hear. But no, no, she doesn't want the city to hear; it doesn't deserve it. It doesn't deserve Lexa. This city chewed her up and swallowed her whole and then spit her out. She doesn't want it to happen to Lexa, too, even if it already did.

As much as she loves hearing Lexa laugh, she wants to hear her moan more.

Lexa cries out as Clarke slips two fingers inside her, stroking upwards with determination. Her eyes close as she swallows, hard, and her hips roll up to meet Clarke's hand. She's breathtaking, quite literally; but Clarke thinks she doesn't need to breath now that she's seen what Lexa looks like with her fingers buried deep inside her. She's a hot velvet inside; Clarke squeezes her thighs at the feeling. She doesn't notice how she straddles Lexa's thigh, riding it in time with her erratic thrusts. It feels amazing. She feels weightless.

She adds a third finger, and Lexa's eyes fly open, locking with hers. They look black. Clarke finds she misses the green, just a little. She wonders if her eyes are as black as Lexa's.

“Clarke.” Each time Lexa says her name, something inside her shatters, filling her chest up to the brim. She finally finds the rhythm that has Lexa moaning constantly, her hips almost uncontrollable now. Clarke's thumb brushes her clit, once, twice, and when Clarke's teeth sink into her neck, she's gone.

The universe inside Clarke explodes and expands and consumes her whole.

Lexa comes with shaking legs and a string of breathy curses and quiet moans falling from her mouth. Clarke comes with a sharp cry, her whole body freezing up before her hips convulse as she rides her orgasm against Lexa's thigh, and they are gone.

Together, they are divine. She's a young god, and her lover's youth is as eternal as she is. She's life and night and sky and summer, and Lexa is moon and earth and wind and stars.

Lexa rolls them over and stares at her, and her hand disappears between Clarke's legs and they are flying all over again.

She clutches to Lexa's back because she doesn't want her to fly away, and her fingers caress the marks on her arm.


End file.
